


A Good Man

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very young and green Decurion Arthur Castus remembers the first and biggest mistake he ever made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I sat on this piece for almost eight months until I completed it with the help of a Live Journal community called Fic Finishing. It’s different than most of the stuff I do and it actually features Arthur’s first relationship – with an original character. I also did some research into the correct terms for Arthur and his men within the Roman Army, and because this story is so historically inaccurate I did the best I could. I decided to let ‘Commander’ and ‘Prefect’ be interchangeable for Arthur, and as a young man in charge of one _Turmae_ of cavalry, he’d be a Decurion. So we’ll go with that. *laughs*
> 
> Gods bless my most bad ass beta, Cat. Thank you for being a second brain and someone to bounce ideas off of. I love you for your outstanding help.

_Prologue._

A brief shudder took Arthur’s spine; the storm was not abating.

He stood at the window in his quarters, hands on either side of the glass, and stared moodily into the downpour. Five days it had been like this. Five days of sheer and utter boredom. Complete and total Hell – by God, he hated storms. He hated rain, he loathed lightning and he jumped every time the sky opened up and let loose with the barreling shout that was thunder.

He hid it well. His men didn’t know; they couldn’t know, as the very idea of a Roman Commander that was afraid of storms was ridiculous to the extreme. More ludicrous than the existence of a loyal, honest, devout leader who stuck by his faith and prayed every day for the safety of the people – all of them.

More preposterous than the idea of that very _Praefectus Alae_ wishing for the comfort of his childhood home, more stupid than the shaking of his knees that came and went with the sound of the pelting water from the heavens.

Ludicrous indeed.

Sighing, he turned and rested his buttocks on the sill, and eyed the mess that was, until recently, his desk. He had decided on the third day of the pouring piss that he would do something about the state of his papers and trunks and clothing and odd bits of armor and tack and the whatnot that filled his shelves. He stared at the piles, one in particular, and then longingly at the beautiful stacks of scrolls that were the most organized things in his quarters. Maybe just a moment to read….

He padded on bare feet to the wall, and after perusing the choices he selected one, and carried it to his bed. He sat crossed legged on the mattress, and hunched once when the thunder cracked through the garrison and the world. He was sure of it. With this type of rain, where could it possibly be dry? Maybe in Rome. Maybe at his father’s villa, the ancestral seat of the Castus family – the simple yet admiringly gorgeous home that he might be able to retire to one day.

Alone.

Arthur shook his head, and shoved a hand through his dark hair. He was perhaps a bit too impatient, and jerked a few strands out with his motions. He shut his eyes briefly and shook his fingers over the floor, the tiny pieces of hair floating to the ground lazily. His gaze followed them; they rested on the rug, and he allowed his sore eyes to contemplate the simplicity of their action as the rain poured on.

_I’m staring at hair. On my floor. God help me, I need to focus. And not on that -_

He unrolled the scroll he’d selected and attempted to read. It was a story he was intimately familiar with, and so he found his mind wandering again. Against his will, his eyes cut to one of the other piles he’d made during his whirlwind cleaning, and stared at the neat stack set carefully on top of his storage trunk.

He stood and set the scroll down on his bed. Moving almost mechanically, he stopped in front of the pile, his fingers stretching out as lightning cracked behind him. The flash illuminated his hand as he picked up the delicate item that lay first on the stack.

The color of the flowers was bleached out, but Arthur could remember what they had looked like, oh, so very easily. He touched the faded white of one crumbling blossom, and frowned when some of the petals fell off onto his floor. He licked his lips, consternated at the state he’d allowed the wreath to get into, even if it was part of a mystery he’d never truly solved. The rain made him hunch his shoulders as he examined the dried flowers. 

The crack of thunder hid the sound of his door opening, and thus he was still distracted by the old blossoms he held in his hands when the person who’d entered without knocking spoke.

“I do so love this country. If it’s not snowing, it’s raining, and if it’s not raining…”

“If you finish that sentence, I’ll shove you out of here with not so much as a bye your leave.”

Lancelot dripped over to where Arthur was standing holding the bent and dried out flowers, their stems trailing over his hands stiffly. The knight cocked his head and narrowed his dark eyes; Arthur did not meet his gaze, but continued to stare at the wreath.

Reaching out a long fingered hand, Lancelot made a questing noise and Arthur inclined his head slightly, ready for whatever smart remark the other man would snap at him. The lightning cracked in the background again, rattling the panes and forcing the hair at Arthur’s neck to rise. He bit his lip as Lancelot took the flowers and remained silent, his fear from the storm abating – but only because his fear of Lancelot’s questions beat it down.

Arthur breathed out through his mouth and leaned against the corner of his desk, crossing his arms as Lancelot examined the delicate relic. The knight’s angular face twitched with a tiny bit of humor as Arthur frowned at the petals that continued to fall.

“What is this, Arthur?”

“Something very old.”

Lancelot’s sharp eyebrows rose as he moved to the bed, still holding the flowers. He – rather gracefully, Arthur noticed with some annoyance – toed off his boots and folded his long frame into a knot as he got comfortable on top of Arthur’s furs.

“I can see that. Tell me.”

Arthur barked a raw laugh and dropped into the chair that faced his bed. He crossed his leg and the old unbleached linen trousers he wore stretched at the knee; he wondered when he’d have to replace them. Not that he paid that much attention to his clothing.

As he remembered, she hadn’t paid much attention to hers either.

“Why ask gently? Why not drag it out of me with harsh words and arguments? Are you sure you’re feeling yourself, Lancelot?” Arthur knew he was being unnecessarily short with his lieutenant, but Lancelot was _always_ ready for a row, and Arthur, for once was ready to respond.

He stood up abruptly and took the wreath out of the other man’s hands, which made Lancelot look up at him and smile that smirk Arthur sometimes wanted to hit off his face. He turned and took the thing back to his desk, and set it reverently down on top of his pile.

“It’s old, obviously. And I have no idea what could possibly make you so annoyed with me so quickly, Artos. So … I’m more interested in the story than I am in an argument. We can do that anytime,” Lancelot’s voice came at Arthur’s ear, and the Commander’s shoulders tensed – but relaxed when Lancelot’s chilled hand touched at the small of his back under his old black tunic. He bowed his head and shut his eyes when the next round of thunder shook the fortress.

“Besides, for the love of Hadrian’s balls, Arthur, I’m bored as _fuck_ and if you’re not in the mood to distract me, then tell me what this is and why you’re so terrifically upset by it.”

Lancelot’s hand left Arthur’s skin and when Arthur had turned back toward his bed, the other man was already sprawled comfortably and had a nice bottle of red wine out between his bent knees. “It’s been raining forever, and I’ve sparred enough indoors to make me permanently smelly. And I’m not swimming to the bathhouse, so I thought I’d see what you were doing.” He looked up at Arthur through half lowered lids, the dusky lashes framing his enigmatic eyes only too well. 

Arthur shook his head and sat back down in the chair, pulling an old blanket with him. He laid it over his knees and shook a finger at Lancelot. “You are fortunate I’ve done all my required post, Lancelot. And you’re also fortunate I’ve already had some of that wine. Perhaps enough to loosen my tongue if only for a short time.”

Lancelot laughed, a rolling thick sound that made Arthur shiver – but not in the way the storm had. He smiled lazily at the knight, relaxing a bit, and reached out a hand for the drink, which Lancelot passed to him. Arthur drank deeply of the lively red and waited until Lancelot was practically lying prone on the bed before he passed it back.

“Are you still there, Arthur? I’d been ready to go to sleep. You are so entertaining sometimes.” Lancelot rolled his eyes mockingly and smiling innocently took the wine back. He lay on one elbow and his clothing, as worn as Arthur’s, gaped broadly at his neck. His leather trousers were baggy at the knees and Arthur took note he was wearing a dagger at his waist per usual. Rolling his lips into a thin line, Arthur wondered if the other man would ever fully trust even him. And then the lightning flashed and Arthur caught a whiff of the dried flowers and his memory turned inward, and he began to speak.

**One.**

The column of soldiers was long, and Arthur Castus, being the newest Decurion, rode near the end. ‘Bringing up the rear,’ as his father had said. Arthur smiled tightly to himself as he followed the line of men and animals and dust. Transferring the shipment of supplies from Vindolanda didn’t take many men nor effort, but the new men and recruits had to be managed and he’d been volunteered.

He figured he owed time spent in stupid errands that could have easily been done by one of the legion Optios, being green and inexperienced here in the wilds of Britain. Arthur most definitely realized the importance of having the right supplies and enough men. But as the locals had been encroaching way too close to Badon proper for his liking, he was anxious and worried about getting back to the fortress within enough time to help set up and lead patrols.

Winter was coming, and with it came starvation and disease for those who weren’t prepared. The Magician and his tribe liked to take from the citizens that lived in the surrounding villages, and part of the _Alae’s_ duty was to smash any resistance that came in the form of pockets of Woads.

Arthur’s men were green too, and he worried about them left on their own with only a Duplicarius with a mean streak and a bad reputation to look after them. Arthur had only been gone four days, but….

“Halt!”

The command came down the line, and the mounted men gratefully got off their horses and stretched their legs. Arthur rose in his saddle, and squinted futilely at the front of the train hoping to discover if they were merely resting or camping for the night. The sun was dipping at the horizon, and he had a feeling he’d have to wait till the following day to see how his men had fared.

Sure enough, the Centurion in charge of their little expedition sent word for all men to prepare for camp, and Arthur did his best to see that the small group of legionaries and weapons he had been placed in charge of were taken care of. The men dug out their own site, and Arthur helped to set up the tents – the foot soldiers surprised that a Decurion would lower himself to assist.

They ate their meager traveling rations and complained halfheartedly of the lack of good food on the journey; they’d all be back to Camboglanna soon and back to regular meals, regular drills, and regular army life. Arthur laughed with the men and shared their dinner and watered wine before bidding them goodnight and arranging the first watch.

He did not remove any of his armor though it was heavy and hot. The bronze cuirass and greaves made him sweat, and as he walked slowly to the edge of the campsite he tugged uncomfortably at the scalloped edge of his breastplate. The linen tunic and light traditional Roman trousers he wore soaked up most of the sweat, and soon after the sun had gone down, he began to be very glad he hadn’t removed his armor. The chill of night in Britain set in, and he suppressed a shiver as he stopped at a fallen log.

He sat heavily and adjusted his father’s great sword that hung at his side. He touched the hilt and then lifted his calloused hand slowly to his neck, feeling for the iron cross that hung under his clothing. He sighed gently when he found it, and closed his eyes as his evening prayer ritual filled his mind and distracted him from the worry he typically felt every night.

He prayed for each of his men and their survival at Camboglanna. He knew that the Sarmatian conscripts that had been assigned to him were not willing or desirous to be doing what they were for a ‘living,’ especially as he was the third man to take control of their wild reins.

But Arthur was doing what his father had before him, and he was satisfied if not proud to be in the same profession the great Uther had been in when he’d been cut down in his prime. Arthur whispered a prayer for his father’s soul to be at rest, and opened his darkly green eyes to stare at the land about him.

The trees swayed in the night breeze and the smell of food and the sounds of men and campfires echoed in his ears. Resting his stubbled chin in his hand, Arthur wondered how some of the career army officers he’d met thought this posting was dire and a waste of the Emperor’s time and theirs.

Then again, Arthur’s mother had been of this place and he found he was quite divided on where exactly he belonged. Of course Heaven would fall from the sky before he’d admit that, and perhaps not even to himself. And yet when he set foot on the green land of his birthplace, he felt rooted and grounded and knew exactly what he was doing and what his job was and who he was.

Rome…was a memory that had not faded, but had dulled at the edges a bit. It was like the fantasy land of childhood stories, where kings and wizards and important men lived and worked and created life and philosophy and everything important in the civilized world. Arthur thought he wanted to go back there just to see if what he’d thought up in his youthful passions was actually the reality of the place.

He remembered sun soaked hills, miles of vineyards, people tilling the ground, children running and dogs barking and the cobbled city streets, messy in the rain and beautiful in the summer. He remembered the doors to the senate, so small and yet so large in his life and beliefs.

He remembered the vendors on the Aventine and his father’s large hand on Arthur’s shoulder…no. That hand had belonged to Pelagius, and Arthur missed the other man with a sudden fierce ache as his kindly wrinkled face swam to the surface of Arthur’s memory.

He wondered if his toga was still folded neatly in his trunk, and if the simple arm band Pelagius had passed on to him from Uther was safe in his quarters at the fortress. It had been so long since he’d opened the heavy lid…he made a mental note to find his old things and make sure they were in good order.

He rubbed a tired hand through his cropped hair – he thought he looked like every other military man, but the _tonsor_ that had trimmed his unruly locks had sworn this was a ‘new’ style – and snorted a sigh. Rising to his boot clad feet, he turned to go check on his mount before retiring for the night.

And nearly stepped on a young girl who had appeared out of nowhere to block his path.  
Arthur’s gut reaction was to put a hand on Excalibur’s hilt and take a ready stance; even as he did so, he knew – he hoped - this girl would prove to be no harm to him or his traveling companions. But where in the world had she come from? He was rather embarrassedly proud he hadn’t let out a yelp of shock.

And why hadn’t he heard her approach?

Berating himself internally, he resumed his normal posture but kept his hand on his sword as he loomed over the tiny creature and eyed her carefully. She was maybe a meter shorter than he was and dressed simply in a woven dress of some blue fabric that seemed to be well worn and functional…but Arthur’s gaze was drawn to her face and the startling grey color of her eyes.

He opened his mouth, shaking off his surprise. “What are you doing here, lady?”

The girl hadn’t shrunken away from him, he’d give her that, but she had gripped at the basket she was carrying and was watching him warily. She cocked her head and made a gesture with one shoulder that brought her long plaited hair swinging around and down her front. Arthur was distracted by the motion but blinked and stared at her, waiting for her answer.

She said nothing, and he grumped in annoyance – and then realized he’d spoken Latin. Rolling his eyes he switched to the tongue of Britons and repeated his question; the sounds of the night rising around them as he continued to stand straight and appear imposing and important.

Or at least that was the idea.

The girl smiled warily and nodded at him. “I’m sorry, _Rome_ , but I’m heading the same way you are and you got in my path.” She looked up at the black sky and shook her head. “Meant to be a lot further on by now. But such a long column of men and equipment! You all take up so much room.”

Arthur blinked again and opened his mouth, then shut it. He affected a serious expression, hard for one so young and green (although he didn’t know it), and cautiously lowered his hand off the sword hilt. A shout from one of the sentries had him turning his head and when he looked back, the girl was a few feet away from him, her back to a large branching leafless tree, her hair once again tucked behind her.

Was she frightened of him? He frowned as he thought of that possibility, as it had always been a rule with him that innocents were not to be taken advantage of. They had nothing to do with men’s battles in this world, and should not be involved if at all possible. The life of a soldier taking care to protect and expand on the Roman Empire could be a tough one, or one that respected the lives that had been taken in order to further the greatness of what Caesar had created. Arthur preferred the latter, and he frowned further when the girl’s face seemed pinched and afraid.

“I mean you no harm, Briton,” he said, adding the teasing word to his speech in the hopes she might not worry overmuch. He would never harm a citizen. Not one that offered him or his men no danger. He sighed when she didn’t react, and he finally released his hold on Excalibur. He stepped closer to her and put out a hand. “I merely wondered if you needed assistance. You are not very safe out here alone…especially with no fire and no camp and no weapon.” _Especially this close to an army full of bored men._ But he didn’t add that thought, and at last the girl narrowed her eyes and set her basket on the ground. His eyes followed the motion, and he saw the ends of flowers and the telltale scattering of dried berries that indicated the gathering of herbs. He wondered if she were a healer, but raised his eyes and met hers instead of engaging that line of thinking.

She rested her hands on her hips and twisted her lips. They were the color of fresh blossoms – he could see that even in the dark – and her plait swished against her rough dress as she took a few steps. 

“I can care for myself. I’ve been doing it for a long time now, and this is my land and your army is stirring up a lot of dust. That is not good for the crops, nor the flowers or herbs,” she added in a slightly huffy voice. Arthur raised a hand and hid his smile behind thick fingers. This one was feisty and not a chore to look at.

He’d not dallied much with local women or the whores that tended to congregate wherever large groups of soldiers did, and lately he’d been desirous of … something, he wasn’t sure.

Arthur was pure and loyal and honest and a God fearing man and he’d never think to do something dishonest or not what he should. And yet – heaven forfend, but he’d been tired and lonely and doing a new job with new raw recruits was hard work and he found himself exhausted constantly. And alone. He thought there was one or two of his men that might prove trustworthy; there was a tall, silent knight called Dagonet that was skilled with an axe and showed a rare talent for great planning and defense. And then there was the one that everyone shied away from – his dark eyes and flashing temper might get the best of him, but Arthur thought the knight called Lancelot had the best moves he’d ever seen. And to fight with two swords…that showed a confidence his men needed to have were they to survive.

And Lancelot loved to argue, and Arthur wasn’t one to back down from anything. He rubbed his lower lip and thought again about how he’d done nothing recently but spend time with knights and horses and weapons. And then the girl spoke again.

“You’re a thinker, aren’t you, Rome?”

She’d crossed her arms over her chest and was eyeing him in a way that made Arthur think she might be as curious about him as he was about her. And where she’d come from, and where she was going, and what was in her bag, and God he had a job to do, and was not one to be distracted so easily.

“My name is Arthur Castus. I am a _Turmae_ Decurion,” he said a bit more sharply than he’d wanted to. He realized he was insulted by her assumed name for him – and he did not know this girl, and why did it matter?

Horses neighed and whickered and the breeze blew and his sweat dried. Arthur fingered the scalloped edge of his cuirass again and smiled more gently at the girl. She brushed a hank of hair back from her face and sighed, sounding curiously like Lancelot did when the knight was frustrated. Arthur’s smile widened, giving his face a secretive pleased look.

“I am Aine,” she said politely. “And I live near your fortress, as I said. And I’m not going to ask for your permission to go home the same way you are, _Arthur Castus,_ ” she emphasized his name, her accent making it sound exotic.

“Awn-ya?” he rolled her name around a bit; he was sure he wasn’t pronouncing it right. She laughed and he flushed. “Close enough, man,” she said as she gazed at the sky again. “Should have been home by now,” she added and Arthur cocked his head in concern. “Is someone expecting you?”

She shook her head. “Na, but I have family I’m bringing these curatives back to, and I’d like to get there before the rains come.” She tucked the edge of a small piece of linen over her burden, the flower stems poking almost comically out both sides of the basket. She frowned but let them be.

“There’s no rain,” Arthur argued, but she merely raised one eyebrow and threaded her fingers together in front of her stomach for a moment. “There will be,” she answered primly, and bent to retrieve her bag. “Well then,” Aine murmured after enough time for the silence to become slightly uncomfortable. “Nice to meet you, Ro- I mean, Arthur, and I’ll be heading on my way.” She began to step around him, toward the road and the hoards of bored and possibly drunk soldiers.

Arthur reached out a hand and gripped her arm. She made to jerk out of his grasp, but stopped and stared at him when he moved more closely to her. The stars were beginning to shine and he could see her face more clearly from their light…and he would not leave this girl to a fate he could imagine unfortunately quite easily.

The army had not changed in many many years.

“Aine,” he said. “I would like to suggest you stay here for the night. Do not cross over the road.”

She made a huffing sound and rolled her eyes, but Arthur tightened his grip and pulled her within a few inches of his armored body. “I have only your best interest at heart.”

“And you’d suggest I sleep where? In your conveniently placed tent, where you can ‘watch over me?’ I think not, my lovely Decurion.” She shook her arm loose. “I may be just a woman in your oh so violent and perfectly run war, but this is my home and I will not be taken advantage of.”

She stepped smartly around him and began to march toward the road and the camp. Arthur groaned internally; she’d have to pass through the main body of the camp, and was she so stupid? “Aine,” he called, softly enough to not bother the sentries. She stopped surprisingly, and turned just her head in order to see him from the corner of her eye. Arthur bit his lip, clamping down on the things he wanted to spout and stepped up to her.

“I have no knowledge of you, I have no desire to know you better, and I have no thoughts other than to keep you safe and away from rabble that might cause you a very unpleasant evening. Not all those from _Rome_ think the same way,” he added and widened his green eyes. His body ached from riding all day and the last thing he wanted to do was to argue with a strange girl that obviously wasn’t interested in listening to him at all.

But he could not, in good conscience, let her go without trying.

“Please, just stay in the forest till morning. We’ll be leaving at dawn, and trust me when I say the men will want to get back home more than they will be interested in you at that point. I am telling you the truth.”

She pursed her lips and looked up at him. Arthur suddenly felt way too tall and tried to slouch down, but his armor wasn’t having it and pinched him in a place that he’d feel in the morning. He rubbed at the base of his spine and prayed to God that the silly girl would listen to him.

He stared at her grey eyes and despite his knowing what he did and what was important to him…damn, but who was this girl? And why did it matter – why? It was something different than mere loneliness that made him care, that made him wonder where she was going and why she was alone. And especially why this particular girl, who was dressed plainly but smartly and had pleasing features and form wasn’t with a man or watched by a husband as she journeyed.

“I’m not sure I won’t regret it,” she said slowly, “but for some reason I sense the truth in you. I will do as you ask.” 

He sighed audibly in relief, and licked his dry lips as Aine turned to disappear into the forest for her camp. She paused and met his gaze again, her long hair falling over her shoulder and trailing over her front. Arthur could see it was dark blond and contrasted interestingly with her skin and eye color, and then cursed himself when he realized what he was thinking.

_No time for this. I have a job to do and duty to perform and I’m protecting one of Britain’s innocent. That is my life._

“Thank you,” she said simply.

And when he blinked tired lids and looked to answer her, she was gone.

Trudging back to his men and his tent, Arthur halfheartedly paid attention to their jokes and questions about what he’d been doing out in the dark on his own. He pulled back the flap of the tent and entered, methodically removing his armor at last. He set his things to the side and as he unfastened his sword belt, he found himself thinking on the foolish girl and her reluctance to believe him – at first.

_You’re a thinker, aren’t you, Rome?_

His teeth showed briefly in the darkness as he lay on his cot in his linen tunic and thin trousers and crossed his arms behind his head, creating a makeshift pillow. The noises of nighttime camp and men and animals and the breeze and the land began to abate, and Arthur fell hard into a dreamless sleep, the worry over a girl he’d only just met passing quickly in the wake of exhaustion.

**Two.**

Ice whirled and blew about in the courtyard, and Arthur’s neck was frozen as his red cloak swirled around his ankles. The fabric didn’t cover his exposed nape very well, and he shivered as flakes of wet snow found their way down his collar.

He stopped when he reached the training grounds, and not surprisingly there were a few knights out doing their best to ignore the winter weather and prove that they were much heartier than the weakling Roman legionaries. He smiled slightly into the wind, the ferocity of it making his eyes squint and tear as he leaned on the fence that surrounded the ring.

A handful of women passed by behind him, laughing and talking, their words whipped from their mouths by the chilly wind, and Arthur cocked his head and glanced in their direction. He wondered why the women were out on such a day when hardly any of the soldiers dared to show their faces and then flushed, realizing the fortress did run only when others ran it.

He nodded at them and was beginning to turn back when a voice at his ear surprised him into looking down.

“Hello, Rome.”

His green eyes widened and a genuine smile stretched his chapped lips. “Aine.” He remembered her name with no hesitation although she was the last person he’d expected to see. He assembled his face into a stern yet appropriate expression and tried to keep the smile to a minimum; she’d have to wonder why he was so strange to be acting so friendly to someone he barely knew. He twitched his heavy wet cloak over his shoulder but the wind had other ideas, and he found himself flapping in a most undignified manner at it.

“Good memory, Arthur Castus,” she said, her clothing nondescript and heavy, her own cloak blowing about her shoulders and knees. She shivered and clutched the basket she was carrying more tightly, the woven thing filled with winter blooms and dried lavender; Arthur could smell the fragrant herb even through the brisk air. His gaze roved over her without his say so, and he turned his back on the knights that were shouting and egging each other on. He stepped so he was blocking the wind from pushing at her, and he apologized profusely when his cloak whipped up and slapped at her.

She laughed and shoved it down, handing the edges to him. He took the wild thing in his hands and brushed his fingers against hers accidentally, both of them chilled and raw from the winter that had come quickly to Britain as it always did. They always expected it, but no one enjoyed it, least of all the men assigned to Camboglanna who had to patrol and fight in it.

Arthur’s traditional armor and long trousers were always damp during this time of year and he found he could never quite get warm when it snowed. He _loathed_ storms and missed the sun so much it was almost physically painful.

And yet looking at this girl, this almost stranger, he found himself happy to be outdoors and happy to have seen her.

“Are you visiting someone here?” he asked, hoping that she’d say yes and that she might be here for a longer time. Odd and an annoying feeling from him - _do not get attached to anything, Arthur._

Aine rolled her eyes and re-tucked the fabric covering her basket in around the sides of the wicker. “Aye. My sister has taken up with one of you,” she nodded toward the various bundled men in uniform walking by, “and needed something from home. Thus, here I am.”

When she said ‘you’ Arthur immediately narrowed his eyes in concern, but then quickly realized she wasn’t referring to one of his knights. He sighed under his breath in thanks; that would be the last thing they needed right now. Any man that had a woman or a family was risking much sadness and disaster each time he went into the field, and Arthur thought it was the height of selfishness to do anything like binding a woman or a child to you only to possibly be taken from them.

“I am sure she will be appreciative,” he answered, trying to be polite. He had no clue whom Aine’s sister was and there were so many nameless faceless legionaries here, her man could be any one of them. And thank God he wasn’t the one that would have to find him out and tell him the Army did not approve of such things in its ranks.

She rolled her eyes again and laughed. “Well, you have obviously not met her. But I will forgive you for that.” Her plait caught the wind, blowing over her shoulder and trailing down Arthur’s armor clad arm. His gaze followed the length of hair up the braid until he met her grey eyes. He swallowed suddenly and opened his mouth to speak, but jerked forward and almost crashed into the smaller Aine as Bors clapped him loudly on the metal clad shoulder.

“Decurion! We are fierce and skilled but we are _hungry_ and not stupid on some days! See you at the tavern later?” He laughed loudly; his booming voice and large presence sometimes overwhelmed even the broad shouldered Arthur, so he merely nodded and gave the order for dismissal. The knights all shouted some form of greeting and Arthur took note of Lancelot’s inquisitive glance at the girl Arthur seemed to be interested in. Frowning, he turned his back and blocked her so the other man couldn’t give her one of his typical charming smiles. Arthur bit the inside of his cheek as Lancelot and the others passed him, the black haired knight’s low laugh reaching his ears easily. Predictable.

Aine was shivering again and Arthur suddenly thought he really should be the good man he thought he was and take her out of the weather…or at least let her go on her way. Why would she want to spend hours speaking with a soldier she barely knew when she could be with her family and then back home out of the elements?

Cracking sounds came from the trees, their heavy bare limbs coated in ice, and Arthur took Aine by the arm and stepped her toward the center of the fort as a few large and jagged icicles fell in random patterns to the ground. “Not a good place for us to be right now,” he explained as her heavy blond eyebrows rose. “I will escort you to your sister’s home and make sure you arrive safely.”

The grey eyes twinkled in the dreary watery sun and the laugh that bellowed from her caused Arthur to alternately flush and smile nervously. He found himself even more fascinated by her at the noise she made; he’d never met a woman who laughed as freely as she did. He waited until she’d let the laugh die down and then stood up straight and professionally. “Lady,” he said, his voice deep and sonorous, “I take your safety to heart. Please allow me to help you.”

She shook her head slowly but the laughter had disappeared. A small smile graced her face instead and Arthur fidgeted uncharacteristically as he watched her. He did not show weakness or worry to anyone he did not know well, but he very much wanted this girl to think him capable and smart. And a good man.

Odd.

She pulled the hood of her cloak over her damp shining hair – the snow had melted in it and changed the color somewhat – and stuck her hand into the crook of his arm. She curled her fingers over the armor that protected his skin and cocked her head to stare at it. “Strange things you men spend the time to invent,” she murmured, but did not wait for an answer from him. “Come, Arthur Castus. I have to stop at the kitchens first and will ‘allow’ you to walk me at least that far. Fair enough?” He grunted his want to argue, but nodded at her. If that’s what she would do for now, he would be happy to take it.

She reached up and brushed the snow that had collected on his shoulder off to the ground and twisted her lips in a wry expression that Arthur could not identify. He wanted to, so he followed her when she began to walk toward the tavern and the kitchens that filled one of the large buildings near it.

The wind immediately caught both their cloaks and wound them together and before Arthur could say anything or even make a motion to stop moving, he tripped – falling into a mighty metal heap at Aine’s feet.

The wet ground quickly soaked into his long trousers and he jerked his hand out from beneath Excalibur’s sheath. Shoving off with stiff, cold fingers, he rose with much dignity and kept his face still and calm. Aine raised one brow but had the tact to keep her mouth shut. She gathered her cloak in the hand that held her basket and wound Arthur’s up high enough so it would not catch his legs again.

“As I was saying,” she said, her voice high and sweet as Arthur detected a sense of the laugh that would come later. “Come along.”

He wiped at the slushy mud he felt on his cheek and followed her, thankful none of the knights had been there to witness his idiocy. The sun was completely covered by thin wispy clouds now and he shuddered in earnest as they passed by the guard station, the men getting ready to go on watch complaining bitterly of the icy sleet that had begun to come down.

**Three.**

The storm that had threatened had not disappointed; the weather had been icy cold and frigid and winter white for several days straight. Arthur tapped at his teeth with his stylus and watched the door to his office, wondering what was happening beyond the small wooden barrier to the outside world. He shivered and got up from behind his desk – stirring the brazier was an hourly chore – and leaned against the wall as he contemplated sticking his head outside and seeing….

But no. He was a man of duty. Sighing, he returned to his responsibilities and his post, only a bit worried at his lack of control and patience.

When he looked up again the sun had fallen and the sounds of the fortress at night during winter filtered through the walls. Men changing guard, men shouting on their way to the tavern, torches crackling and horses whinnying in protest as they were forced in and out of the stables to either start or finish a job no one wanted to do in this weather.

Not that the Woads would come close to Camboglanna now, but things still had to run smoothly.  
And Arthur was famished and he was bored and by God, had the day really gone by that quickly?

He rolled up his things and placed them all in an organized fashion back where each thing went. The brazier had burned down to a safe temperature and he held his hands out over it one more time before braving the elements – his armor had come off after his inspections earlier and the clothing he wore, while functional and simple, was not exactly warm. Then again, was armor any better?

He took Excalibur down from its storage place and strapped the belt around his middle; his father’s sword comfortable and yet heavy as it always was. The padded tunic and vest felt warm now, but he knew when he went outside it would be a different story. Pulling on his red cloak of status, he opened the door and was greeted with a blast that would chill even Hephastus’ fire. He smiled grimly at the scene of legionaries and men and knights and local folk and animals filling the fort. They all bustled about busily, having a destination or someplace to go quickly in this horrid weather.

Arthur shut his office door and felt for the cross he wore tucked under his clothing. He cocked his head and watched the clear, freezing sky and wondered again when he’d have something to do other than run his orderly, boring life and patrol and dispatch the enemies of Rome to their makers. 

He flushed and shook his head as he walked toward his quarters. Such self-pitying thoughts were evil and Arthur reminded himself of just how lucky he was to have good clothing and steady work and food and a place to sleep. He was blessed when compared to his conscripted knights, and not all the locals fared as well as he.

Well, there was one he hoped was doing alright.

A smile crossed his weathered face, and he pictured Aine’s long blond hair and ridiculously expressive eyes as he traversed the courtyard. She would be taken advantage of for her kindness and openness, he knew, and was beginning to work out ways of telling her just that when a uniformed legionary stopped him in his tracks by almost running him over.

The no name soldier’s horse was blowing steam, and Arthur again felt surprise and annoyance that he hadn’t heard the man approach. What was it about…damn, but that girl would cause him much grief.

“Decurion! Woads are ….”

Arthur tuned out the rest of whatever the man was saying as soon as the word ‘Woads’ had been spoken, and sprinted toward the northern gate. As he got closer, he could hear the obvious sounds of conflict and fuck! There were his knights, Lancelot in the middle, twin blades flashing as he grinned through the mayhem as he always did. Cursing aloud, Arthur drew Excalibur and ripped his cloak away from his neck as it impeded his actions as he joined his men at the breached gate.

“What – ” he shouted and Lancelot merely grunted as Arthur began to fight next to him.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” the other man answered, his impish features sporting a bit too much blood for Arthur’s taste. He hoped it belonged to someone else. “Just fight, Castus.”

The blue painted warriors poured in through the portion of the gate they’d managed to tear down – no doubt some Centurion would have his head handed to him literally for that mistake – and Arthur heard the zip of arrows as they began to fly.

All was quickly chaos and shouting and muddy snow and horses and screams and Arthur caught sight of a torch out of the corner of his eye as it set a small building alight.

He gritted his teeth and threw his unprotected body into the fray.

*

The aftermath of any kind of battle is always hideous, no matter the outcome.

The snow had stopped and the wind was still, making it possible for the cries of the wounded to carry throughout the fortress unimpeded. Arthur stood outside the building that housed the medicus and stared blankly at his surroundings, not feeling the cold that invaded his tired body. The folk that scurried to and fro had the same expression on their faces. Arthur, despite the amount of pain he was in, winced at the sight and prayed fervently that God would spare those He could.

He continued his prayer litany as he entered the building and passed through the many cots set up to hold injured soldiers and locals. He found Lancelot in a corner, a cloth pressed to his head as he argued with the person that was trying to treat him. When the knight caught sight of Arthur, he changed the focus of his verbal attack – but Arthur ignored him and pulled the bandage off Lancelot’s head in order to see the damage.

The medicus’ aide fluttered around them, telling Arthur in no uncertain terms that Lancelot was hurt and should remain on his cot for at least the next twelve hours, but backed off slightly when the Sarmatian bared his bloody teeth. Arthur looked at the aide and made a motion that indicated the man was no longer needed. The aide began to argue but Arthur’s expression stopped him in his futile effort. He threw his hands up and moved on to the next person who might actually listen to his advice.

“What happened?”

Lancelot shook his head and then winced as Arthur gave him the compress back. He lifted it and covered the slash that looked as though it would leave an interesting scar – but would not be life threatening. “No idea. I was walking through the courtyard with plenty of other things to do,” he smirked once; Arthur had a feeling Lancelot might have had company before the attack. “And there they were, pouring through the gate. How did they breach it, Arthur? And why now? Fuck’s sake, it’s the middle of winter,” he groused and lowered his hand, the blood on the bandage now drying. He stared up at Arthur, his dark eyes glittering with what Arthur was rapidly beginning to think of as the Lancelot ‘danger’ expression.

“I have no idea,” Arthur echoed Lancelot’s sentiment of earlier. He watched his knight and felt a small sense of relief at finding him mostly healthy. Lancelot was a conundrum, but he was a damn good knight and Arthur suspected he might turn out to be a good leader as well. He was also beginning to become what Arthur might think of in private as something more than just a comrade, and he found that was something that made him alternately completely happy and yet confused all at once. Arthur had never had what he would consider a ‘friend,’ and Lancelot seemed to be filling that role rather well, despite his propensity to argue and contradict. It was good and yet so bad all at once.

He touched Lancelot’s face once with his cold fingers and met the other man’s serious gaze. He stepped in front of the Sarmatian and lowered his chin. Staring at Lancelot, Arthur knew this man needed to be kept alive, if only for his talent and … perhaps heart. He’d have to ruminate on that later, when it was quiet and he wasn’t distracted by the smell of blood and the aftermath of battle.

“Heal. Rest. Find the others for me and report as soon as you can,” he commanded, and Lancelot gave a curt nod. 

“I’m not happy with no answers, Arthur,” the knight said plainly and Arthur nodded solemnly, seriously. That was something he was very unhappy with as well. “Find out the reasons behind this.”

Arthur knew, as he was certain Lancelot did, that there might be no reason, but he cocked his head in agreement and turned, leaving the knight to his solitude. He had kept up his prayer mantra throughout their whole conversation and now it rose in volume in his mind, pushing to the side the cacophony of pain and screams and men wondering aloud what had happened.

Arthur wondered that too; he raised his eyes as he began to search for one of the senior Legates to explain this mess. How had a rag tag band of Woads broken in to one of the most closely guarded fortresses in all of Britain? And how were they going to retaliate – the winter was crippling and the Roman army did not fall on stealth to get by. They used machines and horses and large amounts of heavily armed and disciplined men – and the snow and wind and killer conditions would destroy that.

Arthur knew that was part of what his _Turmae_ did; ferret out the enemy when the legions could not do it. He _wanted_ to do that this time, as the idea of a simple band of brigands (or so he’d like to think of them even if it was a fallacy) getting into Camboglanna without being seen was so ridiculous as to be bordering on the insane.

He reached the section of the building where the locals that had unfortunately been injured in the attack were being treated, and as he rounded the corner he thought he caught sight of Legate Privectus. Speeding up to catch the other man, Arthur tripped over someone’s foot and almost went sprawling. He stopped his fall by hitting the edge of a cart laden with bowls – hard – and the resulting noise was ear splitting and jarring and he just wanted to be _out_ of there. He straightened slowly and began to retrieve the fallen crockery, the shouting and the moans of those in pain filling his ears and the bloody remains of the innocents who’d been hurt the only thing he could see.

He bit his tongue until he tasted copper and continued to look for fallen things – forgetting the legate – until someone touched his arm.

He reached blindly for Excalibur and it took a few moments for him to recognize the face that was saying his name.

Aine was barely identifiable; her hair was matted and her clothing was dirty. The smudges under her eyes stood out like bruises and her hands were holding something Arthur thought might be a cloak of some sort – the fingers were muddy and bloody. He stared at her in alarm and grabbed her upper arms as he dragged her out of the way of the running medicus and his personnel.

“Are you hurt?”

His voice was low and intense and Aine, who was normally vivacious and – Arthur hated the word, but there it was – quirky, watched him with blank eyes and a smooth expression that had Arthur gritting his teeth and getting into her face. “Are you hurt, Aine?” he repeated and shook her slightly when she failed to answer for the second time.

“Aine!”

She blinked and raised her face to look into his narrowed green eyes. “Arthur. No, I’m fine. I’m just…it’s…” she rolled her lips into a thin line and rubbed a hand over her forehead suddenly, leaving a smear of red on her light skin. “I’m trying to help.” She felt weightless and brittle in his hands and he wondered if he should sit her down somewhere –

“My sister.”

Arthur’s head turned from his examination of possible resting places at the sound of her voice. “Your sister?” he repeated dumbly. Had the girl gone and done something stupid…oh, dear God.

“This is hers,” Aine raised the bloody cloak, the source of all the red on her dress and skin, “and I’m sure she’ll need it, but I can’t find her and her house is empty and there are so many hurt people and what if she’s dead and I just … I’m not sure where else to look and Arthur,” she trailed off, her stream of words losing steam like a kettle burned out. “I can’t find her.”

Arthur swallowed and continued his internal prayers, this time with much more vitriol. 

“I can’t find her,” Aine whispered and unexpectedly bent from Arthur’s grasp and threw up onto the floor and the edges of his boots. He merely held on to her so she wouldn’t fall, ignoring the stuff on his footwear and the mess it caused.

She straightened up slowly and Arthur did the only thing he could do – he didn’t think about it or examine his motives for once in his life – and he slung an arm under her knees and around her shoulders and scooping her up, carried her out of there and away from the blood and gore and death.

*

The snow had begun again, of course, and Arthur did not think about himself or his torn clothing, but only desired to get Aine out of the cold as quickly as possible. Her teeth were chattering and he could hear her mumbling to herself against his neck, words about her sister and the battle and just what was she going to do if she couldn’t find…and on and on until Arthur decided he’d stop at whatever the next building was.

It ended up being the stables. Thinking – praying – that no one would be inside, Arthur shoved the door open with his shoulder, ignoring the pain that caused his sore body, and carried his burden to the wall. Stacks of hay to feed the animals lined the wood and he set Aine down atop a mound of crisp grain, her small frame enveloped quickly by the bale. Her arms and legs stuck out comically; Arthur had to bite back an inappropriate laugh, and he readjusted her until she was more comfortable looking.

She stared at him as he crouched next to her. The building was empty of all humans save them and the sounds of the small amount of horses that weren’t being used for clean up or repairing the breach to the gate was comforting and calming. Arthur blinked tiredly and wiped a hand over his face; he wasn’t sure where his cloak had ended up and his padded shirt and vest were bloody and torn. The trousers had miraculously survived and he felt the weight of Excalibur at his side – he reached up a slightly trembling hand and touched the cross around his neck. He pressed hard, harder, until his fingers ceased shaking and he could swallow again.

“Arthur,” Aine said, shaking her head as if coming out of a trance. “What…where are we?” she looked about her and took in the stalls and tack and feed and nodded, a weird toothy smile spreading over her face. “I always loved horses,” she said dreamily, and then coughed, so violently Arthur started and shot to his feet which caused a creaking, painful noise in his knees. “Let me find you some water,” he told her and crossed to the storage barrels. Shrugging, he dipped a cup into the horses’ supply and brought it back to her, the drips from the old wooden thing sounding loud and echoing to his sensitive ears. He crouched down in front of her again and then when he wobbled, he knelt on both knees to steady his unresponsive body. Fucking surprise attack! What _had_ happened?

Aine finished the water and set the cup on top of the bale next to where she sat. She wound her fingers together and Arthur could see the trembling, could see the goose pimpling of her skin, could see the tears rising in her eyes. Her expression was a replica of his; confusion and anger and hurt and worry warred for dominance in them both.

Arthur reached out and took up her hands in his. They were both chilled and Arthur chaffed their fingers together, moving closer to her. He examined her face and watched carefully for any signs of shock. This poor girl was an innocent victim in this whole mess, and Arthur’s brows drew tightly together when he realized they all were in a way. At least the citizens and the folk who merely helped to run the fortress were – the soldiers, that was their job. But they all had someone who cared what happened to them, and this was something that could have been prevented, _should_ have been prevented.

He found his anger growing as he watched Aine’s face crumple and break as she allowed the tears to track down her dirty cheeks. She didn’t make a sound, but the wetness that flowed from her eyes told him what she was feeling, and he almost – almost – joined her. He swallowed heavily over the lump that filled his throat and slid forward on his knees until he was touching her legs with his chest.

She watched him somewhat warily through her wet eyes and Arthur again thought of how strange it was that he’d found such a connection to this girl – and who was she even yet?

Had she never seen violence before? Had she not spent much time around Badon, or around any other fortress towns? Did her parents shield her from the local warriors and what they did here? How could she not know much about the Roman soldiers that had been in her country for four hundred years?

And yet, maybe she did. He had absolutely no idea, and at this moment, when she unlaced their fingers and touched his gore spattered and stubbled face, he absolutely did not care.

He knelt up higher and leaned in, not caring about her messy state or his. He slid his arms around her back and tugged until she was practically sitting on him, and when she removed her hand from his face and wrapped her arm about his shoulders, he sighed and crushed her against him and kissed her.

They both were shaking and cold and lonely and terribly wounded – not externally, but Arthur didn’t think about their mental capacities. He just gripped her more tightly and lifted her as he stood, staggering a bit as her legs tripped him up, but she merely raised them and fixed them about his waist.

She gasped as he kissed her more deeply, urgently, and he thanked God when she responded in kind. The sounds of the stables and the whickering animals were as a symphony to his whirled, crazy mind and he carried his light burden to an empty stall, kicking the door open with his filthy boots.

She settled on the hay strewn ground when he set her down but kept her arms locked about his neck. He tried to gently unwind them but she whimpered and he kissed her again. 

“I am not leaving,” he whispered and she allowed him to let her go for the moment it took him to kick his footwear off and rip his ruined clothing over his head. He looked down at her from his kneeling position when he was finished and was struck again by the oddness of her grey eyes and blond hair – a striking contrast, and he couldn’t bear to think of anything else that truly mattered right then. There were so many things to worry about and do and yet all that he could see was this pale shining girl and that was all he wanted to see.

She sat up and worked out of her skirt, shucking it to the side and quickly her tunic and bodice followed suit. Arthur cocked his head at her forwardness and licked dry lips at the sight of her – it had been a while.

She slid quick fingers through her hair and unplaited it, and he watched the waterfall of dark blond hide her body and he wanted to uncover it more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life. He wondered briefly why she’d taken the time to undo her braid, but watching the flow of gold move over her skin, he didn’t care. Moving calloused fingers up her thighs, he found her skin warmer than he’d thought it would be, and he lay atop of her and buried his face in the join of her neck and shoulder.

Her arms tightened about him again and they took solace in one another even as the noise of the broken fortress and the sounds of the dying and wounded took to the air and filled their whole world with pain and anger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continuation of A Good Man.

**Four**

Arthur blinked as he stood outside in the snowy courtyard; his heavy padded jacket and knee high boots trying in vain to keep him warm under the steel he wore. He shouted directions to the men working on the broken gate and carried wood and moved horses and in general tried his best to repair what had been destroyed so easily.

Lancelot found him there, sweating and standing under the eaves of a small building that housed extra weapons, his dark eyes narrowed and his already furrowed brow wrinkled in consternation. The knight crossed his arms and leaned against the wall and stared with Arthur at the repair efforts. He wore the all black Arthur was beginning to get used to seeing on him and the hilts of his swords rose over his shoulders, casting a long and dangerous shadow on the ground.

“The men are all accounted for,” he said, and Arthur blew out a breath in thanks. He hadn’t been able to take the time to find out as he’d been woken from his bed at dawn by messengers asking for his presence here at the gate. He frowned as he remembered how he’d woken alone in the stables _before_ returning to his bed, but he wasn’t ready to share that just yet. Maybe never…unless something had happened to her.

“How is your head?” he asked, turning to face Lancelot and squinting at his knight, moving closer to see the results of the medicus’ work. Lancelot rolled his eyes and backed up slightly, touching the line of crude stitches over his left temple. “I don’t need any more _Roman_ help, thank you,” he snapped out, but then smirked to cover his sharpness. He shrugged. “It will heal. Are you whole?”

Arthur nodded briefly, his eyes still roving over Lancelot’s lean frame just wanting to make certain. “I am unhurt. Although still confused and angry about all this,” he gestured to the men working. “I have no clear answer from any in authority.”

Lancelot barked a laugh and shook his head; his heavy, hobnailed boots ringing on the stone ground as he moved to see around Arthur. “You won’t. This is a bad mark on their ‘stellar’ careers, Arthur. D’you think they’re going to admit it was any kind of fault of theirs? ‘Weak masonry,’ or ‘bad timber’ or ‘scouts that were drunk’ or ‘it was the Sarmatians’ fault,’ maybe. We will rebuild and then you and I and our knights will go out and hunt Woads. That’s the way things should be,” he finished, and spat to the side, his angular face a mask of anger and disappointment. That was quickly hidden by false bravado and Arthur bit his lip – if only for a second – as Lancelot’s true thoughts were pushed away by the knight as they always were. One day….

“I’m to Tristan,” Lancelot said. “He has an idea where this batch of nomads,” he accented the word and smiled – it was not pretty, “came from. I will fill you in this evening.” He touched Arthur’s shoulder and turned and was off before Arthur could even contemplate an answer. He watched until the other man’s snow dusted springy hair was out of sight.

“Decurion!”

He jerked his attention to the legionary calling his name, and promptly forgot about everything but the mess that had to be fixed.

*

The day was fading and Arthur wavered under the weight of the armor he’d put on as he had begun to move about the area near the broken gate while making repairs. He knew it intimately but still, on the days he was more exhausted than normal it sometimes was a hated thing. Before he could rest, however, there was something he had to do. Something he should have been able to do earlier, but by God the Legates had kept them busy doing their dirty work. He wished that he could be a fly on the wall of the conference room when the men ‘in charge’ decided whose fault the attack was.

They’d told him he and his _Turmae_ would be going out at first light to hunt down the renegades who’d done this to their fortress. Take no prisoners. Arthur had known that would happen, and he had argued the point of bad weather and dangerous enemies on deaf ears. He had asked Lancelot to pass the word for the knights to meet him in the stables at dawn, and the other man had given him a look of such satisfaction that Arthur wondered if Lancelot would be truly happy doing anything other than what he was doing for a ‘living,’ no matter what the knight said. He shut his eyes for a moment and prayed for peace in Lancelot’s dangerous and wounded heart.

He rounded the corner of the living quarters of the legionaries, and made inquiries to the place Aine’s sister’s man spent his time. Turned out the soldier had found a home inside the stone walls and through promotion – and sharing it with two other officers – had been able to stay there. The place was small and like any of the homes the higher ranked officers and Centurions were allotted. Arthur swallowed, wiping a hand over his surely dirty face before knocking.

He knocked for several minutes and no answer was forthcoming. He went around the back and found the place just as empty as the stables had been the night previous; Arthur thought of her and felt a slight warmth suffuse his tired limbs. He came ‘round the front again and renewed his knocking – nothing.

He decided _to Hell with it_ and called out Aine’s name, looking in windows and listening for any sound that would tell him she was there.

Silence rang in his ears as the sun set. The wind picked up and the snow that had dusted the top of the roof blew onto Arthur as he stood at the door, wondering what to do.

Finally when the dogs began to call out and he heard the men of the watch change Arthur twisted his lips and turned smartly around, leaving the little house behind him as he made his way to his own quarters. She had to be here, _somewhere_. She hadn’t been in the infirmary earlier and she wasn’t in the tavern – he’d checked on the way to the house.

He couldn’t imagine she’d be in the stables, and when he stuck his head inside the building to ask the squires they told him what he’d thought they’d say. _No young lady, Decurion._

Consternated and now worried, Arthur returned to his rooms and shut the door behind him. He stood against the wood and breathed quietly and wondered where in the name of all things holy Aine had gotten to. Snorting, Arthur opened the door again, shouting for a page. The young boy looked at him strangely when given the request to look for a young woman of Aine’s description, but agreed to report back as soon as he could.

Arthur crossed his room and began to slowly and methodically remove his armor. When he was down to his tunic and trousers, he stirred the coals of his brazier and removed a bottle of wine from his personal stash. It was one he’d been hoping to share with Aine that night if she’d been agreeable and her sister had been found or taken care of.

He had a feeling the sister was gone, but he hadn’t the heart to tell her that. They’d both been in a different sort of place last night…and had needed the solace one another had provided. He uncorked the wine and drank, curling his bare toes against the chilly floor. He continued to drink until his head felt light and he stumbled to the bed, falling exhaustedly onto it, sleep coming quickly and heavily.

He did not hear the page knock when the boy returned to give him the news that no girl had been found.

**Five**

“Enter!”

The door creaked open; Arthur made another mental note to have it oiled soon. He looked up, bleary eyed from his hours of paperwork, and smiled tiredly at Lancelot. The other man was dirty and Arthur could smell the sweat on him from where Lancelot stood at the entryway.

“I cannot believe you knocked,” he teased as he dropped his stylus onto the desk. Rubbing his face with both hands, he blew out a breath and stood, moving from behind the wooden monstrosity and meeting Lancelot as the knight closed the office door. Arthur’s brows furrowed; Lancelot didn’t normally like to stay in enclosed spaces for long, and unless there was something going on…Arthur sighed again but this time in annoyance.

“I was beginning to be happy for the distraction,” Arthur said and crossed his arms over his armored chest. “But I do not like the look on your face, my friend.”

Lancelot twisted his lips into a wry smile and handed Arthur the small bundle he’d been carrying. “Special post delivery – came in with the grain supplies just now. I rescued it from the kitchen idiots; heard them saying your name.” He shrugged, and his pointed face became still and the dark eyes even darker. He stepped closer to Arthur. “You don’t get special mail, Artos. What is this?” Lancelot touched the packet with a long finger worn in places from several years of sword handling. Arthur looked down at the rough wrapping and shook his head; he turned around and retreated to his desk.

He could count on one hand the amount of times he’d gotten personal post, and eyeing the potentially harmless thing, that knowledge raised his hackles. Who was sending him mail, and what did it portend? The only time anything good had come to his personal attention was – well, never. He’d gotten his father’s effects shipped to him in Rome when he was with Pelagius, and since his mother’s death, he had no one to _want_ to send him good news. Pelagius was off and on about communicating, and the old man was generally incensed with the way things were going in Rome and worried when he did write. Narrowing his eyes, Arthur tried to imagine who would ship him something – superiors with orders? Letters from Londinium?

Who might have died now? He scrubbed a hand over his face, knowing he was showing his mood all too readily and tried to drop his newly discovered and seldom practiced mask of composure over his anxious features. Sitting stiffly – his discomfort obvious in his posture – Arthur fingered the packet and then picked it up, twisting it back and forth. “I have no idea.”

Lancelot followed him and leaned his hip on the edge of Arthur’s desk. As Arthur breathed heavily, his worry amping up, Lancelot’s musk and the smell of horse wafted over him. Normally the _Praefectus_ – promotion had come quickly for Arthur – found comfort in Lancelot and his idiosyncrasies, even when the other man was yelling at him or they were sparring.

Now his nostrils flared in distaste and he backed up slightly. “Lancelot,” he snapped out, his worry and desires to control his surroundings and situations rising to the fore and speaking for him. “Give me some space. I will let you know what this is about as soon as I know.” It was not a request. Arthur’s hands were still as stone as he held the package, but the rest of his body felt like a piece of kindling about to break as it burned all the way through. _What was this?_

Lancelot’s arched brows rose to his hairline but he stood up. “Certainly, Commander,” he bit off. Turning quickly he breezed out of Arthur’s office, leaving his scent and an annoying gaping hole where his mere presence had been before. He also left the door wide open, which allowed the wind and the nasty weather to seep in.

Arthur rose to shut the door. He stuck his head into the corridor and watched Lancelot stride off; he’d have to apologize to his knight later, but there was something too strange and too worrisome about this particular delivery…. Arthur was a man who relied on action and instinct almost blindly, and his normal life was no exception. Sometimes it was a blessing, especially on the battlefield, but other times…he knew he’d have a fight with Lancelot coming. 

In this instance his instinct said _wrong_ and his memory and experience said _something painful lies here._

He shut his door and stirred the coals in his brazier as he stared at the innocuous package on his desk. Warming his hands, he watched it as though he expected it to hold the most evil of any evil things inside its innocent brown wrapping. He didn’t really know where the feeling was coming from, but it wasn’t a good one. His very strong instinct said _bad_ but Arthur was a man of war and tactics, and despite his trusting himself he knew sometimes it was best to do what one did not want to.

“Just open it,” he murmured aloud and forced himself away from the warmth of the fire and back to his desk. Grabbing his stylus he slid the point under the tied string and the package fell open, as if it had been waiting for him to make the first move.

A flash of red and … flowers?

He reached for and slowly picked up the now clean but ridiculously torn cloak; the red fabric was worn but still vivid. He unfolded it and despite it being washed, the edges were rent badly and the clasp at the neck was missing. He cocked his head this way and that; he hadn’t seen this particular piece of clothing since the Woad attack almost a year ago. Where had it come from?

He set it down and picked up the other object that had been in the packet. A wreath of flowers, winter blossoms, not exactly the same but very close to the blossoms he’d seen in the basket she carried the few times he’d met her. They were no longer fresh due to shipping, but they were lovely just the same. And the colors were mostly blue, grey and white…and he shut his eyes and Aine’s face rose unbidden in his mind. Her grey eyes sparkled and contrasted so strangely with her dark blond hair, and the blue of her frock had made the color stand out even more. She must have been a healer, he mused as he held the wreath gently, carefully as he pushed back the hurt and unexpected feelings that had risen with the smell of the dry lavender that was stuck in amongst the flowers.

Her skin had shone like fire even in the black of the stables.

Arthur swallowed hard and opened his eyes. He’d never found her nor heard anything about her again. The attempts he’d made to locate her or her family had gone without being answered. The sister had indeed died in the attack, and her man had known nothing about where they were from or where their family lived. He’d shrugged when Arthur had pressed him for information, and had told him he’d been with the girl for less than a few months, and Arthur would have to forgive him for not ever asking about her family. _Why would I? She was only a sweet dalliance._

There was no way Arthur could take weeks away from his posting and ride about the country looking for her; he could imagine the expressions of the other Commanders and the Legate when he asked them _I’d like to take some time and some knights and go searching for a local family. How’s that?_

He had tried to pay a few of the mercenaries that were always hangers on to look for her, but as Lancelot had told him they would, they had taken his money and had never returned.

After the Woad rebellion had been quelled and things had quieted some at the fortress – Arthur had to admit to himself that unless Aine chose to find _him_ , he mostly like would not see her again. And that realization had made his gut churn and his chest ache for months.

A year had passed and things were as they always had been for Arthur, save the space the odd little relationship he’d had for a few weeks with – for all intents and purposes – a stranger had left in his heart. He wasn’t sure if he was happy or sad about that, especially now, staring at the only two things he now had that proved she had even been a part of his life.

Licking his lips, he looked upward and moved his mouth as he prayed for help. He clutched the wreath in his fingers and ignored the feeling of emptiness that began to spread inside; it was not seemly for a man – a soldier – to feel this way. Especially in regard to a person that had touched him so briefly.

**Six**

The hoof beats rang in his ears as Arthur thundered along the track south of the Wall. He did nothing but breathe and ride, stopping each time he ran across a villager or a drover to ask the same question over and over.

The sun was close to setting on the second day he’d been out – he had three days leave and was becoming anxious about how long it would take him to get back to Camboglanna, but he couldn’t turn around quite yet. The last person he’d spoken to, a woman carrying a bale of grain along the road, had seemed to recognize his description of Aine and had pointed him a few hours ride further southwest.

The leave from the fortress had come as a sheer surprise; he hadn’t asked for it but the legate had told him gruffly this was going to be the last personal time he would have for some time, so _take it and be grateful._ Arthur had been flabbergasted but had merely nodded and packed up his horse in the space of a few hours. Lancelot had caught him in the stables, and Arthur chose to not remember that particular argument, especially for the fact he’d not told Lancelot where he was going. 

He’d put the Sarmatian in charge and Lancelot had threatened to disband the entire group and leave Britain if Arthur did not return in the promised three days. Arthur had half expected the darkly glowering man to follow him, but thank God he had not followed through on that particular promise. Trusting Lancelot came easy; trusting him to do what Arthur would was another thing entirely.

It was now full dark and Arthur was ready to assume the woman that had given him directions had been lying to him or had been wrong. He stopped his horse and twisted in his saddle as he searched for signs of life or a town or anything other than the crushing black that was Britain at night. He brushed snow off his shoulders and ran a glove covered hand over his hair; the wetness fell to the ground and also landed on his horse’s mane. The animal whinnied and Arthur patted its neck – and he jerked his head up as the sound of people speaking reached his ears. He rode forward and when the huge bare trees parted at last – a village.

He smiled despite his exhaustion and spurred his horse toward the few folk that were out in the weather. 

_Please God, some news. Any news._

*

The road was black dark but Arthur kept riding. He could not bear to camp in the snow and woods, and he could not stay in the village even though the locals had been extremely kind and sympathetic. He kept riding even when his horse protested the weight and the time by snapping at him when he tried to encourage it to go faster.

He kept riding even though his mind was blank and his eyes were wide and dry and his heart was the only thing in his body that seemed to be working at all. It was overcompensating, in fact, and he at last had to stop when he could no longer see the road nor feel his fingers.

His pulse thudded in his throat and head and chest and Arthur fumbled with the horse’s set up blindly. He hoped he’d tied the animal up properly; he had no idea and did not care at the moment. He removed the saddle to sit on, leaning it against a tree. He kept his armor on, not caring to deal with the tedious removal of it, and built a small fire. He sat and pulled the horse’s blanket over his knees.

He did all this methodically and only because the thought of leaving his Sarmatians at the mercy of any other Roman was not acceptable. Other than that, Arthur felt he could cheerfully curl up and go to sleep here in the snow and let his pain and heartbreak take away everything else he’d ever felt or done.

His armor was heavy and cold and the clothing and small fire didn’t do much to keep him comfortable…but he figured he did not deserve any comfort. He deserved the hurt in his stomach and the shaking in his hands and the pounding of his heart in his whole body. He closed his dry eyes and laced his fingers together; the leather of his gloves thick but chilled. Ice coated everything and he prayed fervently that it would grow over his brain and soul as well. If he could no longer think, perhaps he could no longer feel. And that would be a blessing.

_Aye, Commander, I knew that girl._

_No…but I can show ya where they lived. Come this way._

_Can’t ya see the damage to this place? We’ve had our share of raiders, same as you._

_Her parents had been long dead – she didn’t tell ya the truth of that, I’d wager by that look on your face. Nice girl. Pity what happened._

_The child only lived a few weeks, and then the Magician came. Winter was hard on them I’d think – they took what they wanted and burned out those of us that resisted. I have to hope you Romans can teach them what vengeance means. We are a peace loving folk…Commander?_

_Yes, I said child._

Arthur’s eyes snapped open; a cry had jerked his consciousness back to where he was and it took him a few moments to realize it had been he that had made the sound.

He bowed his head and prayed aloud and despite the hideous unmanliness of it, he clutched at his leather coated knees and cried.

Despite the fact that by allowing the tears and the emotions to come out – he was acknowledging what had happened and the fact he’d done _nothing_ to help her. He hadn’t known, of course, but he could have worked harder to find out. He could have snuck away during down time and ridden himself to find Aine and her…their….

And now they were both gone, and Woad insurgents had taken care of whatever hope he might have had of helping her at all.

The Magician, the farmer had said.

Merlin.

He shot to his feet and whirled and took out his aggression and sadness and _everything_ on the tree. He shouted and sobbed and screamed and kicked and punched and at last drew Excalibur and hacked at the winter dead limbs until the thing collapsed around him, showering him in bits of wood and snow and icicles that barely missed his eyes and neck. He swung the ancient blade until there was nothing left of the branches or his pride.

Breathing heavily, he stabbed the point of the sword into the snow covered ground and only looked up when his horse made a noise of confusion. He stumbled to it and leaned his head against the warm animal neck and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the tears away so strongly even the memory of them was hidden. 

_The child._

_The child only lived a few weeks._

_…._

_You’re a thinker, aren’t you, Rome?_

The horse whickered and Arthur lay a tired arm over its withers and clamped his lips shut and slowly, slowly straightened his body until he was fully erect and dry of tears. No more pain, no more emotion, no more. No more, he swore to himself, for it was too late and he had failed her.

He would never let his heart trust like that again.

He had trusted, if only briefly, and he had failed her. And their….

He could sense the dawn coming; he had always been good about time and after a few moments of soothing the horse and feeding it some apple he found in his bags, he resaddled the animal and retrieved Excalibur from its icy sheath. Slamming the blade back into his belt, Arthur mounted and spurred his horse back onto the road that lead back to Camboglanna, back to his life and back to whatever he had left.

It wasn’t much anymore.

**Epilogue**

Arthur met Lancelot’s eyes; the other man was still on his stomach but the bottle of wine they’d passed back and forth was gone. The blanket Arthur had covered his knees with was wadded uncomfortably at the side of his chair between the arm and his hip, and he tugged at it, throwing it to the floor.

The brazier crackled and Arthur wet his dry lips; he rose and removed another bottle of red from his hutch. Lancelot held out a hand for it and began to crack it open as Arthur retreated slowly to the large warped glass window at the end of his rooms. He leaned his forehead onto the panes and watched the storm lash the garrison. Laying a hand on the glass, the sleeve of his worn tunic fell back and his exposed skin goose pimpled in the quiet, and he allowed the shiver that built to come.

“I had wondered what that package contained,” Lancelot murmured at his back. Arthur turned his head and rested his cheek on the arm that was still braced on the window as he watched his knight. Lancelot shifted his weight to his left leg and made a querulous noise as he shrugged; all sinew and sharp angles and bone. So unlike Arthur’s Aine, long gone and memory buried. Until now.

“Are you sure the child…”

“Yes,” Arthur answered. He hadn’t told Lancelot he’d done a bit more research on Aine and her doings after he’d come back, when he could bear to see his guilt and mistake without wanting to destroy something in the process. It would do no good for his men to lose him to folly or revenge on someone that could kill him rather easily. He would wait, and practice and hone his skills and Merlin would die at his hand. For his mother and for Aine.

As far as he could tell, that had been his child she’d born. And it had died so young and so quickly.

He hadn’t found out the name; he could take many things, but not that. That was too much to stand and he was having only a small amount of luck bottling the memories and anger and killer hurt up in the tiny place he kept for such things. That place had been close to full _before_ he’d met Aine, so this was not easy.

Lancelot made another noise – this time one of sadness and what Arthur guessed was the other man’s notion of comfort. He lifted his head off his arm and moved back to the chair, stopping to pick up the scroll he’d left on the bed; he didn’t want Lancelot in his wallowing to crush it. He shelved it and sat down heavily, accepting the wine bottle handed to him. He took a long swallow and relished in the burn that coated his throat and his stomach and his brain and everything. He set it down next to the chair and leaned against the high back, this time not so willing to meet Lancelot’s gaze.

The Sarmatian sat at the edge of the bed and hung his legs over; he was bare foot as well and his long white toes reminded Arthur of bleached bones that had been in the sun too long. Shaking his head, Arthur finally raised his eyes to Lancelot’s.

“You did all you could.” The dark look Lancelot gave him brooked no argument – normally, Arthur would ignore that and argue away. Instead he took another swig of the wine and wiped his lips with his shirt sleeve. The room was warm and suddenly oppressive, but with the rain…he had nowhere to go and he had been the one to tell the story at any rate. It wasn’t Lancelot’s fault Arthur hadn’t realized the pain still associated with this bit of memory.

“I did nothing for her. And she died in a raid we could have prevented, and I never got to know her or my child.” He swallowed more drink. Lancelot rose and took the bottle out of his hands, and Arthur gave him a half growl that Lancelot scoffed at. The knight upended the thing into his mouth and finished off what Arthur had left him, and lowered the bottle with a sly smirk that Arthur returned, if weakly.

“Drunken storytelling is a good pastime, Arthur, but I think next time, I’d ask you to pick a story you really want to tell.” Lancelot crossed to Arthur’s desk and picked up the wreath. He examined it again, being more careful this time and twisted his mouth as he raised the flowers to his nose. “Your heart is easily bruised, my friend. Guard it well, hm?”

Arthur frowned and rose unsteadily from his chair. He stood next to Lancelot and wavered a bit as he took the wreath from the other man’s hands. “I am no maid. I am not innocent and I know what life holds for those who are. I only told you the story because you would not let me give you ‘no’ as an answer.” He huffed and made to sound indignant; Lancelot barked a small laugh and touched Arthur’s jaw with his calloused finger. 

“And I know the truth of that,” Lancelot countered. “You can always say no to me.” He stared at Arthur, the dark eyes that Arthur knew so well glittering at him from under slightly drunkenly lowered lids. Lancelot could hold his liquor better than anyone, but he and Arthur had had two bottles of very good, very strong wine. So when Lancelot took his hand away to steady himself against the desk, it was no surprise.

“And when I do say ‘no,’ I get a fight and an argument and I thought I might as well make this time different,” Arthur shot back but then sighed a harsh breath through his nose. He touched the delicate wreath once more and then set it back down on the pile he’d found it on.

Lancelot’s hand on Arthur’s shoulder was familiar and comforting, and for a moment, Arthur contemplated telling him he wasn’t sorry he’d told the story and he trusted Lancelot with it.

But the sad truth was – Arthur might know Lancelot inside and out, he might trust the other man with his life and the small amount of what was left of his heart – but he wasn’t sure if he could trust the other man with this. He had opened his mouth and had spoken and it was out there and now Lancelot knew Arthur’s true shame and he could do nothing about it.

That little niggling sense of doubt made him wonder – would Lancelot keep this close? He shut his eyes and touched the knight’s hand with his own and hated himself doubly for the uncertainty he felt toward his dearest friend. He had failed Aine already…he should not fail Lancelot’s trust in him.

“You should go to bed, Lancelot,” Arthur said at last. “It is late and I will be running drills in the morning – despite the weather.” He opened his eyes and tried to give a reassuring smile. It hurt him to know it did not remotely look real; Lancelot’s expression showed that all too easily. The knight cocked his head and his angular features shuttered, giving him a feral look that Arthur hated to see on him. Especially when he himself was the cause.

It had to be done. Arthur had said too much already.

“Very well.” The reply was short and brusque and Arthur’s chest tightened again as Lancelot’s shoulders hunched and the other man’s body took on the shape of one who was either exhausted or hurt. Arthur knew it to be the latter…he wondered how he’d be able to explain this to Lancelot, but then remembered that some things, no matter how much you loved someone, could not be explained.

That hurt almost as much as dragging the story up from his locked place had.

“Get some rest, my friend,” Arthur added, more gently. He touched a random curl that hung askew next to Lancelot’s earlobe, and was rewarded when the knight did not jerk away. He merely crossed his arms and allowed Arthur his touch and then stepped away when Arthur almost – almost – reached for him.

Better all around.

“What happened to that cloak, Arthur?” Lancelot’s voice was muffled as he had bent over to pull his boots on. Arthur shrugged and followed the other man to the door. “I replaced it long ago.” He opened the door and the smell of night and rain and smoky torches wafted into his rooms, and he wished to God that he could keep Lancelot there for the night instead of his own lonely, awful memories as company.

Lancelot watched him for a moment and then without touching him, leaned his face next to Arthur’s and lay his bearded cheek against Arthur’s roughly stubbled one. He breathed deeply and whispered into Arthur’s ear.

“You’re still a good man, my Artos.”

He turned and strode off down the corridor and Arthur sagged against the wall and stared after him as he’d done countless times. People were always walking away from him it seemed – and Arthur vowed to make this right, and explain the rest of it to Lancelot later. He would explain how back when the pain and the knowledge of what he had been responsible for was so new, he’d nearly gone after Merlin to take the Magician out of this life – and then Arthur had thought to follow him.

That secret was too deep and so old Arthur didn’t know how he would explain it or even dredge it up from its hiding place inside his mind. Things had changed so completely for him in the ten or so years since he’d not been able to help Aine and the mere action he’d considered at the time was almost foreign to him now.

He still remembered the reasoning behind it though, and there were days when he could understand it so very well.

He shut the door and leaned against it, throwing the bolt when his feet and knees began to ache.

Cracking thunder should have shaken him to the core, but he ignored it and picked up the wreath one more time. He still, after so many years and so many hours spent thinking on it, did not understand why she’d sent it along with the cloak, but he was glad and sorrowful to have it regardless. He set it to the side and lifted up the other things it had been on top of, and when he got to the last thing he hesitated before unfolding it.

The red was faded and torn and the neck clasps were missing still and Arthur brought the cloak to his face and hid himself from the lights and the smell of the fortress and the warmth of the brazier and the world with its fabric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a while ago and am rather fond and proud of it still.


End file.
